


The Unintentional Collaborator

by chochowilliams



Series: Harry's Betrayal [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1st year, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative First Year, Drama, Gen, General, M/M, Ravenclaw Harry, Voldemort Possessed Quirrell, not brit-picked, off-screen Manipulative Dumbledore, pre-pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2215200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chochowilliams/pseuds/chochowilliams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dumbledore had been expecting a brash Gryffindor that he could manipulate into the perfect weapon to use against Voldemort. That was not what he got. Instead, the Harry Potter that walked into the Great Hall in September 1991 was an introvert, studious, intelligent and maybe just a little sly. This meant Dumbledore had to take matters into his own hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unintentional Collaborator

* * *

 

**The Unintentional Collaborator**

**One-Shot**

**Written by:** chochowilliams

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ or the characters, places or names. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

 **Summary:** Dumbledore had been expecting a brash Gryffindor that he could manipulate into the perfect weapon to use against Voldemort. That was not what he got. Instead, the Harry Potter that walked into the Great Hall in September 1991 was an introvert, studious, intelligent and maybe just a little sly. This meant, Dumbledore had to take matters into his own hand.

 **Warning:** AU, Not Brit-Picked, Ravenclaw!Harry, Alt-1 st Year, Drama, General, pre-slash, off-screen Manipulative!Dumbledore, Voldemort-Possessed-Quirrell

 **Pairings:** Can be seen as pre-pre-Harry Potter/Tom Riddle (Voldemort)

 **Inserts:** Philosopher’s Stone information from Wikipedia

 **A/N:** Within this story, I will be referring to the “sorcerer’s stone” as the “philosopher’s stone” as that is its correct name. I have no idea where the name “sorcerer’s stone” came from. I have heard that it is supposedly the American name for “philosopher’s stone”, but that is incorrect. The first time I ever heard “sorcerer’s stone” was in reference to Harry Potter. Before that, it was ALWAYS called the “philosopher’s stone” ( Fullmetal Alchemist anyone?). Whoever decided to use “sorcerer’s stone” is a complete and utter bonehead and should be fired (preferably out of a cannon). Anyway, information about the history of the stone I have taken from Wikipedia. Enjoy!

 **Edit 8/2016:** I have decided to make this into a two-part series alongside another one of my one-shots entitled, "Betrayal", which takes place during Harry's 6th year.

 

 

* * *

 

**Underground Chambers – Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – Scotland**

First year Ravenclaw student Harry Potter awoke with a groan.  With a hand to his spinning head, he sat up and hissed at a twinge in his back.  When the stone floor came rushing up at him, his hand shot out to stop his head from hitting it.  Squeezing his eyes closed, he hung his head between his raised knees to await the re-centering of the world.  That was when he first heard the mumblings.  His brow furrowed in confusion, Harry raised his head slowly.  When the world remained where it was, Harry blinked to bring everything into focus.  When it did, he gasped in shocked awe.  His eyes went wide as they took in the sight before them.

 

Where was he?  At first, it appeared as if he were somewhere within the dungeons given how dank and dark it was, but the structure of the walls was different from the walls in the dungeons.  These particular walls, as well as the floor and what he could see of the ceiling, appeared to be hand chiseled out of bedrock.  It reminded him of the Monastery at Petra.  Though an ancient Greek temple come to mind when he took in the columns and the stone steps leading up to a darkened doorway behind him and-

 

“Professor Quirrell?” he called out in confusion.

 

Standing at the bottom of the stairs was his Defense against the Dark Arts professor in all his purple turbaned glory.  Before him was a full length gilded mirror with what looked like clawed feet.  Along the top of the mirror was an inscription of some sort that Harry was too far away to read.  What was such an opulent piece of furniture doing in a place such as this?  It stuck out like a sore thumb.

 

He stumbled to his feet.  Was it Quirrell he’d overheard mumbling?

 

“Professor?” Harry called louder when he received no response from the man.  He took a step down the stone steps towards him.

 

“How does it work?” Quirrell was mumbling.

 

“How does what work?  Professor where are we?”

 

“Use—the boy,” a voice hissed.

 

Startled, Harry jumped and glanced about frantically.  “What was that?  Who said that?”

 

“Yes!  The boy,” Quirrell whispered.  “Potter, come here!”

 

Harry spun around to find Quirrell reaching out to him, his façade twisted into an ugly snarl.  He was taken aback by the perverse expression on his usually anxious professor’s face.  “Sir?”

 

“Come here!”

 

Hesitantly, Harry made his way down the steps to stand before the mirror.  This close he could read the inscription, though he had no idea what it said for it appeared to be gibberish.

 

“Sir, what is going on?”  Confused, Harry glances over his shoulder at the professor.  “I don’t-“

 

“Tell me what you see,” Quirrell commanded of the eleven year old.

 

“Sir?”

 

“In the mirror, Potter.  What do you see?” Quirrell demanded to know.

 

When Quirrell’s eyes flashed red, Harry gasped in fright and stumbled away from the man.  With a growl, Quirrell leapt after him.  Harry cringed aside but the man grabbed his shoulders.  He winced as bony fingers dug through his sweater to pierce his flesh.  Quirrell manhandled Harry into place before the mirror.

 

“Tell me what you see in the mirror,” Quirrell ordered with a hiss from behind Harry.

 

Fearful of what this clearly deranged man would do to him if he did not comply, Harry gulped and glanced into the mirror.  He stilled at the sight that greeted him.  What he’d expected to see was his reflection, despite Quirrell’s adamant insistence making him wonder otherwise.  That was not what he saw. 

 

When the sting of tears blurred the image, Harry ducked his head and reached under his glasses to scrub at his wet cheeks, sniffling quietly.

 

“Well?” Quirrell snapped impatiently. 

 

He gave Harry’s shoulder a violent shake.  The movement caused Harry’s hand to fling his glasses off his face.  With a panicked gasp, Harry stepped out from under Quirrell’s hold and fumbled for his glasses.  He breathed a sigh of relief as he caught them against his chest.

 

“Potter,” Quirrell barked.

 

A startled Harry spun about as he shoved his glasses on to face his Defense professor once again.  He flinched at the twisted sneer aimed at him.

 

“What—did—you—see?” Quirrell demanded.  When Harry did not answer quickly enough, Quirrell screamed into his face, “Tell me what you saw!”

 

“My parents,” Harry shouted back, his voice thick with tears.

 

With a growl, Quirrell tossed Harry aside.  “Useless!”

 

Harry lost his balance and tumbled to the ground.  He cried out in pain when his elbow slammed into the stone floor.  With a hiss, he sat up cradling his throbbing elbow.  At the irate mumblings, he looked up to see Quirrell back in front of the mirror.

 

“I see the stone…I’m presenting it to my master…but where is it?” **(1)**

Harry frowned.  What stone?  Who was this master Quirrell spoke of?  Was he talking about Dumbledore?  Harry was more confused now than ever.  Just what was going on?

 

Quirrell cursed under his breath.  “I don’t understand...Is the stone _inside_ the mirror?  Should I break it?” **(2)**

His frown deepening, Harry dropped his hand from his elbow and planted it on the cold ground besides him.  Curious to see what this stone was and why Quirrell was so desperate for it, Harry leaned over to try to get a peek into the mirror.  Would he see his parents like he had earlier?  Or would he see what Quirrell saw?

 

Despite the situation he found himself in, part of him hoped to see his parents again.  Though he’d never before seen an image of his parents, in that brief glimpse he’d had of the couple, he’d known exactly who they were. His father, an older version of him with dark mischievous eyes, and his beautiful mother with her flaming red hair, both with their arms around him.  Oh how he wished to make that image a reality.

 

At the same time, he wanted to know what was going on.  Where was he?  How did he get here?  The last memory he had was being in the Ravenclaw common room with Mandy Brocklehurst and Lisa Turpin.  They’d been going over their Charms exam…and then…nothing.

 

Since Quirrell was not going to clue him in on what was going on, he would have to do it himself.

 

Harry was practically laying on his side when he was finally able to see his reflection in the mirror.  Unfortunately, it was only the top of his head, so keeping his gaze on Quirrell—who appeared to have forgotten Harry was even there—and the mirror both, Harry propelled himself forward until he could see more of himself reflected in the mirror.

 

“What-?”

 

While Quirrell continued to mutter and curse seemingly unaware of anything else but his quest for this mysterious stone, Harry watched as his reflection’s right arm swung out of view.  He craned his neck to see Mirror-Harry rustling in the pocket of his trousers.  Curiosity had Harry cocking his head.  He watched as Mirror-Harry retracted his hand which Harry noticed was clenched into a fist.  Mirror-Harry held out his hand palm side down and one by one slowly began to uncurl his fingers to reveal a sizeable red stone.  It looked like an uncut gem, possibly a ruby, but this stone appeared to glow.  It even flickered as if it housed a flame.

 

“Wow,” he breathed.  Was this the stone Quirrell was obsessing over?

 

Unbeknownst to Harry, Quirrell had overheard his whispered exclamation.  He turned narrowed red eyes to the boy.

 

As Harry watched, his reflection glanced up from the stone to peer directly at Harry and winked.  Harry frowned.  He was unsure what was going on, but he found himself riveted by the scene playing out before him, so he continued to watch as Mirror-Harry re-fisted his hand around the stone and shoved his hand back into the pocket of his trousers.  At that exact moment, Real-Harry jumped, startled, as a weight appeared in his pocket.  Pushing up onto his knees, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the very stone his reflection just showed him.

 

“Oh wow,” he gasped.  How had that happened?  “That is so cool!”  Magic truly was amazing.

 

Sitting back on his legs, Harry titled his hand this way and that and watched hypnotized at the play of light exploding from the stone.

 

“It’s called the _lapis philosopharum_ or the philosopher’s stone,” drawled a male voice.

 

“Huh?”  Blinking, Harry lifted his head to see Quirrell standing over him.  Honestly, he had forgotten about his Defense professor; the stone was that mesmerizing.  Harry was startled to find the man’s eyes were again red and they were fixated on him.  When those eyes turned to the stone, Harry curled his fingers around the stone.  He was feeling protective all of a sudden.  In response, those eyes narrowed at him.  Harry studied the man, _really_ studied him, for the first time that night.

 

The Quirrell Harry remembered was a pathetic stuttering fool scared of his own shadow, always cringing and wincing as if in constant pain, hunched over as if carrying a heavy load.  He always seemed fearful and on the verge of fainting, his blue eyes darting here and there as is afraid of what hid in the shadows.  This man before him was not that Quirrell.  _This_ Quirrell’s voice was missing that stutter that had plagued them all year and instead was smooth and cultured.  His back was straight, chest out, shoulders back, chin up.  Even his aura was different.  Everything about him exuded confidence, which was the exact opposite of the man Harry remembered from his Defense classes.

 

No, this man was not that Quirrell.

 

“Also known to some as the sorcerer’s stone,” Not-Quirrell, as Harry was going to refer to him as until such time as he was told different, continued.

 

Harry frowned in confusion.  That name sounded familiar, but he could not recall where he’d heard it before.  “What is it?”

 

“What it is is a legendary stone said to be able to turn metal, such as lead, into gold.”

 

That caught Harry’s attention.  He stood up on his knees and stared in awe down at the glowing red stone laying innocuously in the palm of his hand

 

“It is also believed to prolong the life, in essence granting immortality, of any person who consumes a small portion of the stone.  This is referred to as the Elixir of Life.”

 

Harry’s head snapped up.  “This stone can help people live forever?”

 

“Yes,” Not-Quirrell confirmed.

 

“Awesome!”

 

“Legend also says that the stone can aid in the creation of perpetually burning lamps—meaning the lamps will continue to burn forever, the transmutation of common crystals into precious stones and diamonds, reviving dead plants, creating malleable—meaning flexible—glass and creating a homunculus or clone.”

 

“It can really do all that?”

 

Not-Quirrell lifted his shoulders in a lazy, but elegant shrug.  “So claim the alchemical texts.”

 

“That is so cool!”

 

“Indeed.  Did you know that the philosopher’s stone was first mentioned _in writing_ in a text from 300 BCE entitled  Cheirokmeta?” Not-Quirrell inquired.  He conjured a chair and settled upon it with more grace that Harry had ever see from anybody, especially Quirrell himself.

 

Harry’s jaw dropped.  “Whoa!”

 

“Though the origin of the stone remains a mystery,” Not-Quirrell continued, “and will most likely remain so, a man by the name of Paracelsus, who lived in the 16th-century, believed the stone was in fact an undiscovered element called _alkahest_ from which all other elements were derived.”

 

“Elements?”  Harry frowned.  “You mean like oxygen or helium or water?”

 

Not-Quirrell nodded.  “Yes.  Today when someone talks about the elements, they are referring to the periodic table.  Back then, what alchemists meant by ‘elements’ was fire, water, earth and air.”

 

Sitting back, Harry nodded.  He remembered a little about the periodic table from grade school and he’d read a book a few months back about the original four elements, so he knew exactly to what the man was referring.

 

“What we _do_ know is that in the 13 th-century, a man by the name of Albertus Magnus somehow came to possess the stone.  How he came to have it and what happened to it after he passed in 1280 after a two-year illness is not known.  There were rumors that his pupil Thomas Aquinas inherited the stone upon Magnus’ death, but there is no validity to those rumors as Aquinas himself passed away six years prior to Magnus.  If Magnus did give the stone to Aquinas, it would have been while Aquinas was his pupil.  In that case, the question becomes, ‘What happened to the stone upon Aquinas’ passing?’  Aquinas could have bequeathed it _back_ to his teacher but that brings us back to our initial inquiry of what happened to the stone after Magnus died.”

 

Though it was fascinating, all this information was making Harry’s head hurt.  “If this Magnus guy had the stone, why didn’t he use it?”

 

“Ah!  That was because Magnus claimed to not believe in the stones alleged mystical properties.  He even claimed it was impossible to turn base metal into gold.”

 

Disappointment swirled within Harry at that.  “Really?”

 

Not-Quirrell smirked.  “So he claimed while alive, _but_ -“

 

Harry’s head snapped up, holding his breath in anticipation.

 

“After Magnus’ death, an anonymous source came forward claiming that Magnus had admitted to him that he _had_ in fact transmuted metal into gold.”

 

Harry grinned.

 

“It is my theory that Magnus, as a religious man, had strong morals and believed that using this stone’s ‘unnatural’ abilities caused man to play God.  That is most likely why he did not use it.”

 

Harry nodded.  He guessed that made sense.

 

“Have you ever heard of a man named Nicolas Flamel?”

 

Harry frowned.  The name sounded familiar, but he could not place where he’d heard it before.

 

“Well, Nicolas Flamel was a French manuscript seller who was born in 1330 and passed away in 1418.  In the 17th century, there were rumors alleging that Flamel had created the Elixir of Life using a philosopher’s stone he had created.”

 

Harry shot up.  “ _He_ created the Elixir of Life?”

 

“Such are the claims.”

 

Harry deflated at that.  “Meaning he didn’t.”

 

Not-Quirrell shook his head.  “Despite popular belief, there is no indication that Nicolas Flamel was involved in alchemy.”

 

Harry found himself frowning again.  “Okay,” he drawled in confusion.

 

“And yet there is a man in Paris calling himself Nicolas Flamel.”

 

“ _The_ Nicholas Flamel?”

 

“Yes,” Not-Quirrell nodded.  “He is even married to a woman named Perenelle—which was the name of the real Flamel’s wife.”

 

“Wow.  Is he?  The real deal?”

 

“I believe him to be a fake.  As I said, the _real_ Flamel was not an alchemist.  He sold books.  Though, it is possible that as a purveyor or texts, Flamel came across alchemical texts.  He may have even come across the  Mutus Liber in his travels.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“It is said to be a symbolic instruction manual for concocting a philosopher’s stone.”

 

The wheels in Harry’s head were spinning.  “So he _could have_ made one then, right?  If he had the book?”

 

Not-Quirrell frowned and turned to stare at the mirror, but Harry had a feeling the man was not actually seeing the mirror.  “Hm.  You have a point,” he concluded.

 

Harry grinned.  That would mean all the stories surrounding the philosopher’s stone were true.  The possibilities!

 

“If this guy in Paris is the actual Nicolas Flamel, he could have come across the Mutus Liber, like I said, and became fascinated by the idea of the philosopher’s stone like those before him, and decided to keep the book instead of selling it, which would explain why the manuscript vanished.  Maybe he experiments and ends up unlocking the stone’s secrets.  With the stone, he could have created a clone and thus faked his own death.”

 

“Wow,” Harry breathed.

 

“Or this guy is a phony.”  Not-Quirrell indicated the stone still clasped in Harry’s hand.  “This stone here is either his stone, fake or not, or it could in fact be Magnus’ stone-“

 

Harry gasped.  Yes!  To keep the stone from falling into the wrong hands, Magnus would have either destroyed the stone when he fell ill or he could have brought it here to Hogwarts for safekeeping

 

Not-Quirrell chuckled, which sent shudders racing down Harry’s spine.  It wasn’t altogether unpleasant and that confused the eleven year old.

 

“And that is why I want the stone.  I want to study it.  Is it fake?  Is it real?  If it is real, then does it do what history claims?”

 

This was all so exciting!

 

Harry held out his hand before him and slowly uncurled his fingers.  The flicker of light play against his hand was fascinating, 

 

But he soon found himself frowning.  “But how did the stone get into the mirror?  What _is_ the mirror?”

 

Not-Quirrell stood up.  The conjured chair vanished with a muted pop.  “This,” he said with a sweep of his arm at the mirror, “is the Mirror of Erised.”

 

“Oh!”  Now it made sense why he though the inscription was gibberish.  It was backwards!

 

“The mirror shows you your innermost desire.”

 

Harry’s mind flashed back to the image of his parents he saw initially.

 

“How the stone ended in the mirror I cannot say, but I am sure Dumbledore had something to do with it.”

 

Harry nodded.  That made sense.  As the headmaster, Dumbledore would be privy to the goings on at Hogwarts.  “Why don’t you just ask Professor Dumbledore if you can borrow the stone or that Flamel guy if it’s his stone?”

 

“Make no mistake.  I did.  Repeatedly,” Not-Quirrell admitted.  “Unfortunately, both refused.”

 

“Why?”  Harry was truly confused.

 

“Think about it this way,” Not-Quirrell said, spinning around to face him with his hands clasped behind his back, “the philosopher’s stone is not only legendary, but it is _priceless_.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Think of it as the Hope diamond, the Crown Jewels and all the art in the Louvre combined and that would only be a fraction of the prestige that surrounds the philosopher’s stone.  And if you owned an object that valuable, would you allow it out of your sight for even a moment?”

 

“No,” Harry said without stopping to think.  “I mean, maybe if it was my friend…”

 

Not-Quirrell nodded.  “Precisely.”

 

Harry gazed down at the philosopher’s stone then back up at Not-Quirrell who had extended his hand towards Harry.

 

“May I have the stone Harry?”

 

Harry bit his lips as he looked at the stone again.  He watched the undulating play of light against the palm of his hand as he thought over everything that he’d learned.

 

Finally, he came to a conclusion.

 

“Okay.”

 

Not-Quirrell stepped forward eagerly, his blood red eyes that were glowing as fiercely as the stone itself going crazed.

 

“But only,” Harry continued as he closed his hand around the stone and taking a step back, “if you tell me your real name and what you really want with the stone.”

 

Annoyance flashed across those eerie red eyes and twisted his lips into a sneer, but when Harry blinked, the haughty expression was back on the man’s face.  “My name?  I would hope by now that you would know the name of your Defense professor.”

 

“I do.  His name is Quirinus Quirrell, but you are not him,” Harry said with confidence.

 

A strained silence encompassed the two as they studied one another.

 

Harry may be a kid, but he was not stupid.  There was a reason the Hat put him into Ravenclaw even though it had said he would do well in both Slytherin and Gryffindor.

 

“You are smarter than I gave you credit for,” Not-Quirrell said finally breaking the silence. 

 

“Ravenclaw remember?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

Harry waited patiently.

 

“My given name is Thomas Marvolo Riddle,” Not-Quirrell said with a look of disgust on his face that intrigued Harry.

 

“Oh!  I know you!  I saw your name on that award in the trophy case!”

 

Riddle sneered.  “So the old fool kept it did he?”

 

“What is for?”

 

Riddle smirked at Harry.  “For helping to catch Syltherin’s Heir.”

 

Harry blinked at the man.  “Who?”

 

Riddle waved his hand about as if clearing the air.  “That is a story for another day.  Anyway, what I want with the stone is exactly what I told you.  I want to study it.  One cannot simply create a new philosopher’s stone since the Mutus Liber has vanished and those who have access to the one stone that is known to exist care not about sharing knowledge.”  Riddle took an eager step forward, “what say you?  Will you give me the stone?”

 

Still uncertain, Harry studied the stone briefly before lifting his gaze back to his Defense against the Dark Arts professor.  “You promise to return it when you’re done?  It’s not nice to steal things.”

 

“Of course.”  Riddle placed a hand over his heart and bowed.  “I swear on my magic.”

 

There was a shift in the air that the ears of both males plugging.

 

Harry put his fingers in his ears and wiggled them about, but his ears remained plugged.  A sharp rap on his head had him looking up.  He winced when his ears popped and his could suddenly hear again.  “What was that?”

 

“Magic sealing the promise I made.  Now if I break my promise and do not return the stone, I will lose my magic and become nothing more than a muggle,” Riddle said with a sneer.

 

“Oh.”

 

“So,” Riddle said turning towards him with an eyebrow cocked.

 

Harry merely stared at the man in confusion before he realized what he was waiting for.  “Oh!  Here.  Sorry.”  He handed over the philosopher’s stone readily.  He watched as a crazed look appeared on Riddle’s face as the man gazed down at the stone in his grasp.  The expression of his face reminded him of the Joker in Dudley’s Batman comics.  Had he just made a mistake?  Suddenly all he wanted was get out of here and back to his dorm.  “Professor?” he called.  His voice was back to being unsteady.  “H-how do we get out of here?”

 

“Leave that to me,” Riddle replied with a smirk.

 

Harry gulped.

 

* * *

 

Unlike the journey _to_ Hogwarts, the journey back to London was taking no time at all.  They would arrive at King’s Cross in an hour.  Harry wondered if he could bribe the conductor to bypass London altogether?

 

Resting his chin in his cupped hand and resting his elbow on the lip of the window, Harry turned to gaze blankly out the train window.  The scenery was passing by in a blur of color.  His other hand drew lazy shapes on his jean clad thigh.

 

The sound of the horn.  The rhythmic click-clacking of the wheels.  Even the sound of his friends playing a rowdy game of Exploding Snap was not enough to rouse Harry from his thoughts that returned to the events in the Underground Chamber.

 

_“By the way, Mr. Potter,” Riddle tossed over his shoulder as the two of them climbed the stone steps towards the doorway Harry had noticed earlier, “if you are wondering how you came to be down here, I would look towards—a higher power.”_

Even know Harry felt a mixture of nausea and anger.

 

_“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry demanded._

_Riddle paused on the landing before the doorway.  The way forward was still lost in the darkest of shadows.  “When I arrived, you were already laying unconscious on the steps there.”_

_Harry followed his pointing finger to the spot where he had found himself in upon waking._

_“I found this on your sweater.”_

_Harry turned around to see Riddle pulling out a small baggie from inside his robes.  His eyes went wide at the sight of the contents.  Within the baggie was a single long gray hair.  He reached out with a trembling hand and snatched the baggie from Riddle._

_“Recognize it?”_

Of course he had. Who else in Hogwarts had long gray hair?  No one other than Dumbledore.  But why?  What did that even mean?  Why would the headmaster kidnap him from his dormitory and leave him an underground chamber in the dungeons of all places?

 

_“But—why?”_

_“Now that, Mr. Potter, is the question, is it not?”_

He has let his mind replay what happened down in the chamber, making sure to leave nothing out, again and again since then, but he still could not make heads nor tails out of anything.  No answer was forthcoming.  There was a part of him that wondered if he actually wanted an answer.

 

Sighing irately, Harry pushed away from the window and slouching down in the seat, let his head rest against the back of the seat and stared up at the ceiling of the compartment.

 

“Harry?  You alright?”

 

Turning his head to the side, he smiled at Lisa.  It appears as if the game was over.  He wondered who won.  Judging by the lack of soot and the shiteating grin, he would hazard to guess that Mandy won.  That was not much a surprise really.  Somehow she always managed to win when they played.  “Yeah.  Are we almost there?” he asked when noticed the others were gathering their stuff together.

 

“Just about.”

 

Harry nodded.  How many children could say they did not want the school year to end?  He was not looking forward to this summer at all.  The others had given him suggestions on how to survive two months with his magic hating muggle relatives, but still, he would prefer not to go back at all.

 

“Why does the headmaster of my school get a say in whom I live with during the summer?” he grumbled.

 

“God complex?” Michael Corner suggested.

 

It may have been met by snickers and snide remarks, but Harry believed it to be a good a reason as any.  In fact, it may just _the_ answer.

 

Towards the start of the school year, someone had broken into Gringotts and attempted to steal an artifact that had been removed from the Goblin run bank earlier that very day.

 

At around that same time, the third floor corridor—from which Riddle and he had emerged at—was considered “out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”  Not to mention there were all those traps he had seen on the way out.

 

The philosopher’s stone.

 

_“How the stone ended in the mirror I cannot say, but I am sure Dumbledore had something to do with it.”_

 

Despite who the stone belonged to originally, whether that Magnus guy or the maybe fake Nicolas Flamel, it had been removed from Gringotts and taken to Hogwarts where it was hidden within the Mirror of Erised and fortified with traps.

 

Why?

 

The answer came quickly.  A lure.  The stone was used to lure someone out into the open.

 

Who?

 

Not-Quirrell, or Tom Riddle as he called himself, was the only person who came to mind.

 

Had Dumbledore known that Quirrell was not actually Quirrell the entire school year?

 

“It was a trap.”

 

“What?”

 

Harry shook his head at Lisa.

 

Dumbledore had taken it upon himself to hide the legendary philosopher’s stone in a school full of children in order to lure Riddle out.

 

But why?  Who exactly was this Thomas Marvolo Riddle anyway?  And what did that have to do with him?  Had Dumbledore wanted him to confront Riddle?  Again, why and how?  Yes, he may be one of the top students in his year, but he was still only eleven years old. What could he do that an adult cannot?

 

He would definitely have to keep a close eye on Albus Dumbledore next year.

 

But first he would have to survive the summer with the Dursleys.

 

**…The End**

 

* * *

 

**(1)** Taken from _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_ page 290

 **(2)** Taken from _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_ page 291

 

 **A/N:** Remember to leave a review. Please and thank you!


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